Black and Blue and Other Colors and Numbers
by Hutch-is-gorgeous
Summary: "Black and Blue" episode related but a lot of it doesn't always follow what you saw in the episode. Hutch is hurting from more than just the bullet wound.


Title: "Black and Blue and Other Colors and Numbers"

"Black and Blue" episode related but doesn't always follow what you saw in the episode.

Thanks to someone first beta-reading the original version and that didn't work for her, so I re-wrote it. She's busy beta-reading a different story of mine, so thank you Linda, for taking over the job of looking over this version.

####

**Hutch POV**

It was still light outside, and though sometimes I let Starsky drive my car (I was on my 2nd Ford Galaxie 500. The other one totaled by Roy Slater who was dead, so we didn't have to worry about him rolling my current Galaxie into the depths of a canyon anymore) today I was doing the driving, and Starsky was a few feet away from me. Sitting in the front passenger seat.

I glanced over at him. In his hands was a newspaper spread open in the middle, and he was obviously finding one of the pages of extreme interest to him.

Though it wasn't to me. Not to me.

Then out of the blue he told me to, "Pick a color."

"What?" I asked him. Entirely confused how come he wanted me to do that.

Also, I wanted to take him home. Home to his place and drop him off. Then drive to my Venice Place apartment and lie down on my new bed with a new mattress 'perfect' for those who are as bone-weary and hurting as I am.

My occasional stress stutter kicked in even more-

And and and and sleep longer than Rip Van Winkle. Yawn.

When, "A color," (Starsky, with sapphire blue eyes) insisted that I pick one, while taking another glance down at that page of the newspaper.

I'd heard what he'd told me to do, all right, but brought my sky-blue eyes back to where they were supposed to be as to not crash my car into something.

Or worse-into someone!

Although, there were no people out by or on the streets. Which was eerie for this time of day.

#####

Traveling some more down the road, I don't know why, but I took a quick glance out the driver's side window and looked at this row of houses we've seen plenty of times, and we've never had any troubles out of them. Wasn't expecting any trouble now. Then I repeated looking back at the road right there in front of me, then looked at Starsk again.

(With my head going in different directions, it was kinda like someone was playing ping pong with it.)

And Starsky… He still had that same newspaper, spread open in the middle, in his hands.

It was then that he thought to bring me up to date of what he was doing and, "I'm checking my ESP quotient. I'm testing me. Come on. Pick a color," he insisted that I do so.

"Oh, come on, Starsk. After shuffling papers for 12 hours in the office. Come on, give me a break, will ya?" I snapped at him.

Then how dare someone to accuse me of being 'unnecessarily' grouchy when I had every right to be 'justifiable' in a foul mood. No doubt someone out there who didn't like me, though, would find fault with my attitude. However, that Starsky guy still sitting over there in the front passenger seat and originally from Brooklyn, NY. wouldn't.

And with all this talk about me, some more about Starsk-he frequently sounds like while living in Brooklyn he spent a lot of time with people from Boston, Massachusetts (abbreviated as MA) when he hadn't. Not that Starsky has anything against Bostonians. And neither do I except for, "A color. What's the big deal?" he said sounding like… Yep. He is from Boston.

#######

"Alright. Blue. How's that for a color? Blue. Is that good?" I finally gave in and gave Starsky my answer.

"That's what I thought you was going to say," he said, giving me one of his cheesy smug smiles.

Not that I can't sometimes be haughty. So instead of slapping him and wiping his smile off his face, I left both hands on the steering wheel. Keeping my eyes back on the road in front of me.

#####

Now in response to his, "That's what I thought you was going to say"-

"Sure you did," I replied and did so in a somewhat scratchy voice from being…

Then I heard these words from him:

"Pick a number."

_(Annoying, irritating, aggravating!) to me of words they were! And I briefly thought about taking both hands off the steering wheel. Lean closer to him. Grab hold of his neck and choke the living daylights out of him._

When although I would never really do that to him, "Oh, come on, Starsky. I'm tired and I don't want to play this game." I told him in that same sort of scratchy voice from being- what I'd just finished telling him I was which was tired, and I didn't want to play this game.

Starsky's response to that was, "Hey, you're drivin' me home. You've got nothin' else to do. Pick a number."

What I didn't mention to Starsky due to he already knew this, it was because of my left foot that was cramping again into a sizeable ache and was contributing to making me grouchy. Was also contributing in making my thoughts go all over the place and that wasn't good.

Anyway, I can be as graceful as they come, but the more klutzy of us two, it was about a month ago I was barefooted and had somehow stepped on a rusty nail and put a hole in the bottom of my foot with the dumb thing. The antibiotic pills I was prescribed ended up coming from a bad batch, and I got a bad case of blood poisoning.

I was so sick _I spent ten days in the hospital and because at the time Bay City was experiencing a shortage of nurses, Starsky had to help feed me, bathe me, and help me to the toilet. How humiliating! Especially because I'm a grown man and not a child! Especially because I remembered another time when I was recovering from the plague, and he'd had to do those tasks when I was incapable of doing them for myself. _

I wish we could put that period of our lives out of our minds for good, it was later that I'd developed lower back problems and not just one 'problem' - well though I still have no difficulties attracting the ladies, sometimes the back problems make me look like I'm about two years older than Starsk.

Plus, I'm not afraid to try out new hairstyles. While Starsky is mostly stuck in a rut of having the same one, and I now have a mustache while the only time I've seen him with one is when he's trying to look like the deceased singer Jim Croce. Or he's wearing a fake stache for some undercover assignment we are on.

######

Through the years I've known Starsky, sometimes my hair is short, and sometimes it's longer, and sometimes I don't take the time to style it, so my hair looks more like Shaggy's' in the cartoon _Scooby-Doo_ like it did today.

Starsky brought me out of those thoughts about my hair, his hair, and my back problems and my foot troubles with-

When as stubborn as he is! Kept on looking at me, insisting that I pick a number.

#####

"Okay. I've got a number."

"What is it?" He wanted to know.

Shaking my head left and then right and repeating doing that. "Nah. Nah. Nah. No," was my reply.

Next informing him, "This time you're going to tell me." Nodding my head once in the affirmative that I would not give him my answer until he guessed which number I was thinking of.

The newspaper in both of his hands still folded open in the same place but this time not looking at it, but at me instead, "Okay. I'm getting, ah."

With his 'ah' I thought I'd caught him not knowing my answer. But his stalling only lasted a few seconds, and that was it, when he told me, "Seven."

"Say what?" Then I looked at him like I just couldn't believe my ears! All because I really was thinking of that number.

"Seven," Starsky said, looking at me quizzically.

Didn't need to go on to tell the guy his answer was right, but told him anyway, "That's it." Although sometimes later on I planned on telling him I had been thinking of a different one.

He-He! What fun that would be! And he wouldn't be mad at me either, due to we both liked to tease each other a lot. Like brothers often do who are super close. Though some people would still think we are being mean to each other when we're not.

#######

"Okay!" Starsky enthused about me picking the color blue and the number seven, and did so while looking down at that center page of the newspaper again, when, "Man. Am I qualified."

"You're qualified to do nothing more than commit yourself," I informed him.

Commit himself to an insane asylum, that is. As I finally noticed it was an _Examiner_-a tabloid newspaper- he had in his hands, all along!

Which really didn't surprise me because-

And not that I never read tabloid newspapers, because I sometimes do. But I don't have faith like he does that over 50 percent of what they have in them is all the way true.

Starsk kept on anyway looking down at the page and then read out loud to me, "If you get 60 percent or more correct of this test you are qualified to take our advanced ESP class. That's extrasensory perception," he thought to inform me.

"No kidding," I replied, and did so with not arrogant sarcasm, but sarcasm, nonetheless.

Even so, Starsk was looking at that stupid page in that dumb newspaper again and read out loud to me that, "100 percent of our students have used this ancient wisdom in the stock market, Las Vegas, and in relationships with the opposite sex."

But right then I was much more into telling him, "Well you need all the help you can get, pal."-"Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha."-

Amused by my remark about him and especially him needing help with the opposite sex.

He gave me a smirk and though it was a small one, it told me he thought it was funny too.

###

"I got blue and seven. I'm battin' a thousand. I must be some kind of mystic without even knowing it," he said with a big cheesy and even toothier smile than what he so far had given me.

The second time in less than five minutes he was being too cocky and for his own good. And this time I pictured in my head taking him to a lake. The nearest and 'coldest' one that I knew of. And as soon as I got him out of the car, I would yank off his shoes and socks and toss him in the freezing water so instead of swimming back to the shore, he swam further out into the lake!

Where fish were and would be happily nibbling at all ten of his fingers, all ten of his toes, and his only 'one' nose! But it was still a nose!

And I wasn't being mean either thinking that. Especially because he was still being suckered in with that tabloid newspaper ad, and no doubt about it! The advanced class on ESP wouldn't be free and cost too much of his hard-earned money!

I couldn't let that happen! Not to him. My working partner and best friend.

Some might say I was being over-protective of him. But it was my responsibility to look out for him and try to stop him from 100 percent and then some believing that ad in that newspaper.

So "Sure you are." I retorted about him saying, "He must be some kind of mystic without knowing it." But I could tell that wasn't enough to deter him from going ahead and sending in his money, and I would have to come up with something else to prevent him from doing so. Maybe I should grab the tabloid from him, roll down my window and illegally toss it out onto the street. Then hope there aren't any more issues of that newspaper in the stores he could buy.

Then it was another flare of pain I felt and in the most troublesome spot in my lower back, and I needed a chiropractor who could permanently fix the problem.

Plus, too much caffeine was getting to me, and I was still tired, and Starsky still wasn't! Having drunk more coffee than I had during our shuffling papers for over 12 hours in the office. Otherwise known as the squad room where our desks are and on the 2nd floor of the Metro Division Police Station.

###

Told you my thoughts were bouncing all over the place with the pain I was in and that wasn't good. So, did I sometimes enjoy being pampered after all? Depending on the circumstances, you bet I did! And certainly anytime now he was going to say to me,

"I'm takin' over doing the driving. Taking ya to your place and giving ya a back massage on your new bed with that new mattress. I won't say a word so you can listen in peace to Aretha Franklin and then Glady's Knight and the Pips on your new record player. When I'm done giving you the massage I'll say, 'Good night, Hutch,'- and then after ya go to sleep I'll sleep on your not too lumpy old couch just in case you wake up and need me to do something else for you."

Okay, maybe he wouldn't say all of that except he'd leave in the part about giving me a back massage on my new bed with the new mattress and the part about Aretha and Gladys Knight and the Pips. When we both knew I wouldn't go under the knife for my back, and I had reasons why not. Reasons that I didn't want to go into other than I was scared stiff if I had the surgery, I'd end up not being able to ever walk again.

When over the police dispatch radio, the female dispatcher (and Starsk and I were familiar with whom she was. We had dated her, but at separate times) cut in with, "All units. All units. A 211 in progress at 10543 Kruger."

"Did you get that ole' Blue Seven Mystic? We're four blocks away," I notified Starsk, when I didn't need to. As he already knew that's how far from the address we were.

His left hand his dominant hand, he leaned forward, grabbing a hold of the mike.

The coiled cord attached to the mike long enough so he could lean back in his seat, in a casually calm and relaxed manner. While taking our job serious enough to say into the mike's mouthpiece, "This is Blue Seven. Zebra-3. Zebra-3. We're following on the 211 at 10543 Kruger."

_I picked up the speed of the car enough to make the tires squeal, and it had to make Starsky, the owner of a red hotrod with white stripes (also known as his Torino) proud of me._

_################_

Arriving safely to the address on Kruger, through the back door, I snuck into the house. Making my way cautiously down a hallway.

And then I saw a black girl. A young teenager. Walk out of the living room and with a black handbag zipped closed all the way. Obviously full of loot she'd stolen from the house.

The handbag, though big, was tucked snugly under her left arm. Held in place by pressing her armpit to her ribcage.

My hands were significantly bigger than hers and raising my .357 Magnum higher in the air, I aimed it at her.

I then gave her the entire fair warning to not do anything to avoid being arrested by shouting, "Hold it! Police!" And made sure I said it stern enough so although I wasn't wearing a uniform, she knew I was dead-serious that I really was a cop.

Then I watched her free hand take the smaller, but also 'deadly' gun out of her blue jean's front waistband. She raised the gun high enough in the air, aiming it at me!-

We stood frozen in place, staring at each other-

Her eyes were black or were they dark brown?

And had she taken the gun from inside the house, or was she already packing it before she got here?

Either way, I could've made the choice to shoot her first before she squeezed the trigger of her gun and plugged a bullet into the left side of my chest!

What had she taken? Shooting lessons by an expert? Because only seconds went by when I found myself slumped down on the floor. And I didn't care at all that it was a carpeted floor with good padding underneath it, cause the bullet wound still hurt like crazy and I needed Starsky to come rescue me!

###

Didn't need a carpenter's ruler to know the bullet she'd plugged me with was only a mere six inches from my heart.

_And on the floor like I was, even then I realized these six guys in Internal Affairs at Metro, along with the equally rigidly cold-hearted Simonetti, and Dryden who was the most soft-hearted of the men!-Would all 'eight'' of them still want a gigantic piece of my hide and then some! Because it didn't matter to them. Not in the least bit, what color the teenage girl was-_

_Black, blue, yellow, orange or some neon bright color. Or the color of an itsy-bitsy teeny weenie polka dot bikini! And all because they would think I should've treated her like a criminal. An adult one. And shoot her before she could shoot me!_

In the house's hallway like I was; my eyelids had fallen all the way closed, my lower back entirely forgotten, at least for the time being. Much more concerned with the considerable amount of misery I was in from the bullet inside my chest.

Then there was the blood. Didn't need my eyes open to know it was red and soaking clear through my fairly thick blue jean jacket and also my white with gray stripes dress shirt underneath it.

The jacket zipped down to right above my navel. The bottom trim of the jacket was black. I had on blue jeans with a brown belt.

As a cop, you'd be surprised how much you can remember about details. Even when you're shot.

##############

Heard someone breaking a window with something to get inside the house with me.

My own ESP telling me it was Ole' Blue Mystic Seven-

'Starsky.'

Also wearing a lot of blue. Blue dress shirt, but with the blue so light it could be white.

He had on a dark blue windbreaker.

He also had on blue jeans.

The girl, too, was wearing blue jeans. Like I already said. But also a blue jacket over her red shirt. That thanks to me wasn't also red with her blood.

####

What my own ESP said nothing about was that to get inside the house with me, Starsky had taken off a birdbath's saucer top and hurled the stand it had been placed on through one of the living room's glass windows.

It didn't tell me whatever he'd broken the window with was big enough it had made a good enough path for him to quickly 'fly' through the broken window and into the living room. And to talentedly do so without cutting any of himself with the broken glass.

But I did next hear him in a big fight with it had to be the black teenage boy. Also wearing blue. Also, wearing black. At least I think he had on black. As I'd only gotten a quick look at him right before the black girl had come out of the living room with the handbag full of loot.

####

Starsky was now by my side.

"Hutch. Easy."

But I couldn't take it easy, muttering these words to him:

"Just a kid. Just a kid."

###

"Hutch. Easy," I made the decision to repeat the words to myself as both of 'em were words that Starsk had intended to put my mind further at ease that I had done the right thing in not shooting her before she had the chance to shoot me.

And then. And then. And then Starsk took off after her to somewhere not that too far away, and outside the house. But he didn't catch up with her with how fast she was running from him.

And even with my eyes still closed, how did I know he hadn't caught up with her?

Number one: Because though I wasn't into motor vehicles like Starsky was, my ears could tell the difference between whether it was a car or a truck whose ignition was being turned over with a key.

Number two: Then metal hitting something else metal- and pretty sure it was that car hitting another vehicle and then heard someone honk a horn.

Number three: Then with how quickly afterwards Starsk returned to me and I asked him, "Did you get her?"

Number four: "No," he replied.

Then with my eyes still closed, "She was just a kid. Couldn't pull the trigger. Couldn't." I told him with what breath I had left in my lungs to do so. Rolling my head from side to side with the exhaustive over-tiredness and the pain I was in.

Then I felt the touch of someone's palm.

'His'-Starsky's left or right palm and on my left or right cheek.

Either way, Starsky's palm was so nice and warm and fighting off as much as was humanly possible the freezing cold I was feeling from starting to go into shock even with my blue jean jacket still on.

Fighting off as much as humanly possible this pain increasing from the bullet wound, and so was my lower back acting up again. Along with this terrible stinging in my left foot. My doctor said it is called neuropathy and caused by having stepped on that nail and then getting the blood poisoning.

Starsky left his hand on my cheek, but I couldn't stop shivering. Now caused by not how cold I still was, but with wanting even more assurances from him that I had done the right thing not shooting the girl.

#####

Starsky didn't use his mouth or any of his hands to give me his answer I had done the right thing, and that was okay by me and by him too! When this time we 'both' knew I'd done the right thing. No doubt about it.

Even Captain Dobey and a lot of other people at Metro would take Starsky's and my side knowing if I had shot her first with my .357 Magnum that weighed three pounds, it would've eventually had killed her… she was so young, not that tall or large and not so able to take a bullet anywhere on her body.

Would've eventually had killed her. Not giving her a chance to change her ways for the betterment of herself and also society. And those eight guys in Internal Affairs would just have to accept that.

Then Starsky and I heard what had to be the siren belonging to one of Bay City's many ambulances and I fainted. Passed-out. Whatever you want to call it.

####

I came to again in the ambulance, and Starsk relayed to me that after he'd heard the gunshot from inside the house on Kruger, he delayed a bit breaking one of the living room's windows with this birdbath stand to get to me.

His excuse for the brief delay was because he'd known it was me who'd been shot, and he temporarily had frozen in a panic before springing into action.

Didn't have to ask him how he knew someone had shot me when it was his ESP concerning me that had told him so.

"Where's the teen boy I saw in the house?" I choked on my saliva saying it, then coughed.

"Shh Hutch. Don't talk. Try to rest," Starsky ordered that I do so. But it was hard to be good and obey him, even if the order had been said in a nice way.

Was hard to rest from the pain of the bullet wound and the pain in my back too. And there was the searing hot pain from the neuropathy in my left foot and all three combined were dragging tears out of my eyes. Those tears falling down both of my cheeks.

What a big sissy I am!

In spite of it, Starsky took some Kleenexes and wiped the wetness of my tears off my cheeks the best he could.

"Easy, Hutch," Starsky repeated, trying to further soothe me. "You're still breathing too fast. Go slower. Like this…"

And he showed me how to while finding more Kleenexes in the pockets of his blue jeans.

###

Then the torment in my chest struck again, and the cramping and knotting up of my back also forced me to cry out to Starsky.

Though the misery of the neuropathy had thankfully subsided, somewhere along the line I informed Starsk that when we got to the ER for them to tend to the bullet wound, that if they wanted to also take a crack at doing something for my back, I was still too scared stiff to go under the knife… Fearing I'd end up forever paralyzed.

"Can't you give him something for pain? He's hurting!" Starsky, in deep concern for my well-being, barked at the paramedic in the rear of the ambulance with us.

The paramedic continued with, "Sirs. The answer is Detective Hutchinson will have to wait until he's seen by a doctor at the hospital before he gets some painkillers. I'm sorry about that.

_The paramedic calling us 'Sirs' respectful of Starsky and I being cops, though his job is just as important as ours._

"Starsk!" I gasped. And knowing my misery was bad enough I'd deeply bruise a few of Starsky's fingers should he place his hands in mine, and I squeezed them…

It wasn't that he would care that I'd bruised them, but that I would care and have a guilt trip about it.

He found two stress balls in the back of the ambulance and was going to put them in my hands to squeeze instead.

#####

Then Starsk and I had one of our moments when (without speaking out loud to each other)- we remarked that if I squeezed the balls, it would increase the bleeding going on in my chest. As it was, the paramedic had just gotten the bleeding under control what with enough gauze pads! And continuing to press down on them with his hands.

And then I screamed, "Star Star Starsk. Do something!" In anguish that the paramedic was was was doing that! Keeping me from bleeding to death, but still causing the bullet wound to be even more painful than it had been.

"It hurts! Help me!" I prayed out loud for relief.

And Starsky glared at the paramedic in a way that said he was happy he was keeping me from bleeding to death, but wasn't there another way to do it other than pressing down on the gauze pads!?

#####

Then the teen boy back at the house on Kruger -and Starsky had put some handcuffs on for some other cops to pick up- somehow appeared in the back of the ambulance with us.

I swear I wasn't hallucinating-

Anyway, I had my eyes open all the time we were in the vehicle, and Starsky and the paramedic had to be seeing him too. What with the surprised that the teen was there look on their face.

Starsky then growled at the boy, "You idiot! Who do you think you are!? Puttin' up a fight with me back at the house you were robbing with that girl, and causin' me to slow down gettin' to my partner!" I could kill you with my bare hands for doing that!"

"I promise I won't ever rob any place again! I promise I won't! Don't kill me!" the boy screamed in fear of Starsk.

I squeezed my eyes closed again against the pain. Especially because it was hard to be stoic, what with the way the ambulance was bouncing its way down the road. No matter how much the driver was trying to not hit the many big potholes in Bay City.

The city needed to get to fixing them and soon, Starsky glared at the boy again and then whispered something in one of my ears, "I love you. Don't you die on me, Blondie." Then he said something only me, and his ma who still lives in Brooklyn would understand when a bad habit of his is to sometimes slur his words together.

The first time too that Starsky had actually come out and said the words "I love you." And though they were whispered, they meant the world to me.

Starsky turned his head so I could whisper something to him, I told him, "I love you too, Buster Brown. I mean Ol' Mystic Seven. But give the boy a break. When we get to the hospital call juvie and have him thrown in the least roughest part of it."

"What!?" Starsky squealed, looking super-incredulous that I'd told him to do such a thing for the boy.

Of course, trying to convince Starsky to do that for me was hard! And who can blame him? Especially when the next time I said anything to him was to accidentally inform him I now had a sore throat.

That in itself wasn't all that bad, but I could tell I was running a pretty good fever without Starsky telling me my face was flushed red. When I thought to tell him, "I'll be okay and won't die on you, and that's a promise."

'Okay. That's good. That's great!" Starsky enthused. "But what about this throw the kid into the least roughest part of juvie thing? Huh, Hutch? Huh?" Starsky wanted an answer from me, and wanted it now, and not sometimes later on!

My voice was still croaky, "You've heard it said before that the way to kill someone is to kill them with kindness. Well, it's the same if you have him thrown in the least roughest part of juvie. You'll be killing him with kindness."

"Your logic still needs some work, Blintz. But I get what you mean." Then Starsk added, "And what about you, son? Whatever your name is. Do you get what he means? If so, do you agree to go to the least roughest part of juvie, or do you want to go to the part that don't always treat kids right?"

"I do get what he means. Thank you for sending me to the nicer part of juvie! You won't regret it!" Then the boy-he disappeared!

I was over 100 percent certain that a good portion of what had so far gone on in the ambulance was absolutely true. Including Starsky telling me in words that he loved me. But what about the boy? Should someone say I'd been hallucinating all along about him having been in the ambulance with us.

All I can say to that is that later I found out his name was Petrie Barker. Also found out when some cops arrived at the house on Kruger to pick him up, he was still handcuffed. And it was all the way fact that they took him to the least roughest part of juvie instead of the part that don't always treat kids nice.

####

Conclusion:

In the hospital and soon after the bullet was removed, Starsky was paired with the beautiful and smart and black Joan Meredith.

Can I say I wasn't resentful that Dobey had paired Starsky with her?

Nope! 'Cause I was as jealous as can be, and it wasn't because she was pretty. Because I had my own pretty nurses who were attending to my needs. Including they were giving me these wonderful shaves without accidentally removing any of my mustache.

They weren't even nicking me with the razor.

I was so jealous because at the warehouse with some help from Dobey, I saved Starsky and Joan from being shot and killed. Then Starsk had the audacity to call her 'Partner' and basically, he was ignoring I was there, and that made me super begrudging of their relationship.

Plus, I had no painkillers on me, but didn't he realize though I'd snuck out of the hospital for Joan too, it was mainly for him that I'd done so? And in doing so, ripped out several of the stitches in my chest so it started achingly bleeding again.

Was I brave enough to sometimes later say something to Starsk about how I was feeling?

Yes! I was! And did it by childishly scowling at him. Then told him with words how come I was doing that.

Starsky apologized for calling Joan ''Partner'' and being the tight-knit brothers we are, I accepted it.

####

In Dobey's car or Starsky's Torino? Who really cared how I got back to the hospital? Where the ER doctor chewed me out for sneaking out of the hospital saying though he understood why I'd done so, I should've at least asked one of the staff to help me. The doc then verified I'd done a number on pulling out my stitches by all the activity I'd done since sneaking out…

I couldn't help but hiss in pain when he gave me a shot to numb the area before he sewed me back up. He also asked about my back and my left foot, but I chose to ignore his inquiries because I was back to being exhaustively overtired and wanted to go home and sleep in my new bed with the new mattress. And and and and sleep longer than Rip Van Winkle. Yawn.

Then Starsk informed me I could sleep, but it wasn't going to be as long as I wanted to, and that for at least a few more days I would be getting my zzzzs in the hospital.

He also told me how there was a Mrs. Greene who was dying, but she was okay with it, because she'd lived a good life and she'd soon be with her husband. Then after meeting her in person, I even let that lovely lady talk me into letting Starsky give me one of those shaves.

And that was saying a lot! When I was afraid that anytime now he was going to slice my neck wide-open with the razor and no matter how careful he was trying to be to not do that.

She talked with a Polish accent, Starsky was yakking at me in his sometimes Bostonian one. Not that either of us have a problem with Bostonians, mind ya.

After I moved from Duluth, Minnesota to Venice, California and went to college, then attended the Bay City Police Academy where I met Starsky-and I married Nancy aka Van, it hadn't taken very long at all that I often sounded like I'm from I really don't know.

Maybe Kansas City, Missouri? Because I even wrote a song about Kansas City and named it "1927 Kansas City." But that's another story altogether. What I do know is that one day I'm going to write a special song for Starsky and call it,_ "Too Many Burritos and Other Junk in Your Stomach Aren't Good for You, Starsk!"_

The End


End file.
